Grimorium Merlinium
by wugglyump
Summary: Being a compilation of entries regarding the Sorcerer's War and the lives affected thereby. -A Balthy 100 fic consisting of a series of one-shots with variable ratings.-
1. Arcana Cabana

_Characters and concepts belong to Disney. Here's my response to the ever-popular Balthy 100. This will be a collection of unrelated snippets, some outtakes from my longer fics, some plotless in-character ramblings about how this fandom's canon works (at least in my head), and occasionally something of actual merit may emerge._

_If the chapter consists of more than 1000 words or so, I'll label it by character and genre.  
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_Unless otherwise specified, assume each individual snippet has no relation to any of the others, or to any of my longer fics.  
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_I should add that the rating may rise on this collection, mostly due to language, but also violence, and possibly sex. Any relevant warnings will be placed at the top of each chapter/prompt. I usually write canon relationships for this fandom, but slash and femslash, implied or explicit, may creep in (I don't have any plans as of yet, but basically I'm not going to limit myself). I will warn for this sort of content also, and if there is no warning, you may assume the content is Gen._

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><p>01. Arcana Cabana (557 words)<p>

"Six? Did you really just…are you serious? Six?" Dave couldn't seem to pick his jaw up off the tabletop.

"Yes, four offshore and two in American banks," Balthazar answered calmly. "Four plus two still equals six, last I checked. But I may not be able to reclaim them all."

"Why so many?" The younger man managed to get out after a moment. "They ran out of room…?"

"What? No, it doesn't work that way. After the Great Depression I thought it might be a good idea to diversify. I have some things lying around in caves and old wells, too, unless they've been plundered. Nothing is truly safe from time, in the end. But what I'm saying is you can stop worrying about where Veronica and I will be living. I can afford a nice place in the suburbs. We can talk about your student loans later. But I need a week or so to get things back together."

Dave nodded slowly. "Okay. Well…I guess the turnaround's livable for a week." He wasn't touching the comment about his student loans. Mostly he tried not to think about them in the first place, but the idea that someone could just swoop in and take care of them for him was overwhelming.

"It's fine." Balthazar leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I'm sure you want to get on with your life, and it should be safe enough to go back to your flat. But I strongly recommend wards on it, and maybe a tracker on Becky until we're sure of what Horvath is up to."

"You think he'd go after her again?" Dave's stomach clenched painfully.

"He's…tenacious. And ruthless. I think assuming he's beaten would be a mistake."

"Should we have let her and Veronica go off shopping like that?"

Balthazar smiled faintly, because he, too, had his doubts about letting the women out of their sight, but he recognized them as irrational. "Veronica is more than equal to Horvath in power, skill, and cleverness. Probably they're at the mall asking one another if it was safe to let us stay here all alone. But you don't 'let' a woman do anything, Dave. Except sometimes in the sense that you get out of her way before she mows you down."

"But you can put a tracking spell on her?"

"…if you ask nicely."

Dave smiled a little. After a moment's thought, he asked, "Will you be trying to get the Arcana Cabana back?"

Balthazar sighed. "I don't think so. It served its purpose. It was a diversion, ultimately, when the years weighed on me the heaviest." His eyes went distant and a little dreamy. "I wouldn't mind a farm. A garden and some trees…"

"You don't seem much like a farmer."

"My father was a farmer." He focused back in slowly. "We had an apple orchard, and chickens, and goats. Times were different. But I thought I'd grow up and have some flocks and seven or eight children."

Dave couldn't picture this, and didn't want to say so.

After a moment, Balthazar went on. "I suppose that ship has sailed. But we'll see what Veronica wants. I doubt we'll manage 'normal life' but maybe 'lack of constant battle' will be enough."

"You don't ask for much." Dave smiled weakly.

"That's why I'm so rarely disappointed."


	2. Griffin

_In legend, the feather of a griffin is supposed to be a cure for blindness._

_I like the idea of the names of the apprentices having been changed and Anglicized over the centuries, but I also didn't want to refer to them by different names out of the blue, without context. So I half-assed it, and you get Belshazzar, Myrrdin, Maxim, and Veronica._

_I also like the idea of young Maxim risking his neck to save his beloved pseudo-siblings. It makes for a bittersweet end, though._

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><p>64. Gryffin (444 words)<p>

"You've brought it?" Myrddin gently took the reins of Maxim's horse, steadying it as the young man dismounted.

His eldest apprentice was scratched, and one arm was bound, as if sprained or broken, but his expression spoke of equal parts pride and concern. In answer, he reached into a saddlebag and withdrew a single golden feather. "I'm not too late…?"

Myrddin accepted the token with a sigh of relief. "No, my boy, and you've done well. I'll heal your cuts as soon as I'm done with little Belshazzar. Veronica is with him now."

"I want to come."

The master's green eyes met the dark, worried gaze of his apprentice, then he nodded. "Good. He'll be relieved. He was afraid you would be hurt for his sake."

Maxim smiled a little sadly, and followed as Myrddin turned and made his way into the castle, leaving the horse for a stablehand. "That's like him. How did that revenant catch him, anyway? I never heard."

Myrddin made a small, strangled sound of annoyance. "You know Bel. He thinks everything's his friend, human and otherwise. He's lucky it only blinded and left him."

They made their way to the sickroom in silence. Little Veronica, no more than twelve years old, was half in a chair, half slumped over the foot of the bed, dozing, but Belshazzar ap Lake, Myrrdin's middle apprentice, was half propped up in the bed, eyes bound with a clean rag, and he was singing a soft lullabye. He broke off as the men entered and asked, "Master?"

"I'm here. And so is your hero. Maxim's returned with the griffin's feather, as I said he would."

A smile broke over the thin, pale face, and the boy reached out a hand. "Thank you…I'm glad you're all right."

The two male apprentices linked hands. "You're an idiot, you know," said Maxim, unable to handle the sentimentality. "I should make you take half my chores for a month."

"You wouldn't!" Gratitude shifted abruptly to indignation.

"I think that's _my_ decision." Myrrdin stripped a couple gleaming barbs off the shaft of the feather and groped for the mortar and pestle on the desk nearby.

Maxim sat on the edge of the bed and mussed his fellow apprentice's hair, and Veronica yawned and murmured in her sleep. The old master began patiently to grind up the last essential ingredient of the sight-restoration potion, smiling to himself. There was always a wound to heal (or an injured ego), but his apprentices hung together like family, as he'd hoped they would.

In the coming war, they would need that closeness. All they had to depend on was one another.


	3. Heaven

_This one was inspired by my significant other's reaction to surprise backrubs, with a hint of How to Train Your Dragon on the side. Scratch the right spot and they just collapse, man._

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><p>28. Heaven (200 words)<p>

Balthazar and Veronica's new house in Queens felt like a safe haven, and Dave reported there several times a week, not only for magic lessons but often just to study or research quietly in their parlor. Sometimes Becky came with him, but not always. On nights where it was just Dave and his master, conversations tended to run into the wee hours of the morning.

"And that's why you always ground yourself before developing that kind of cross-ritual," Balthazar was saying as Dave scribbled notes in a composition book. "But what you have to remember most is nevooooohhh…mmn."

Dave looked up, puzzled by the unexpected break in the discussion. Veronica had crept up behind her husband and was running her nails down his back. It wasn't an obvious act of seduction, but apparently there was a sensitive spot halfway down and a couple inches to the right of the spine. Balthazar's eyes glazed over, and he started to slump onto the tabletop.

Dave hid a smirk, marveling at Veronica's subtle skill in sorcerer-shutting-up-ing. "This weapon you use," he told her. "It must never fall into Morganian hands."

She laughed, and for once Balthazar didn't protest the joke at his expense.


	4. Retribution

_I was thinking about the way Balthazar and Dave's relationship develops in the movie, and this popped out. I notice that Balthazar is actually pretty careful with the way he scolds Dave, and gets more careful the longer the film goes on, as if he's starting to pick up on Dave's sensitive areas. The most severe tongue-lashing is really after the mop scene, where he tells him in one breath that he's abused his own power, and in the next breath that he's making progress and basically needs to just believe in himself. There's visible restraint there. And after Dave hands over the Grimhold and Merlin's ring in exchange for Becky, and is obviously feeling like crap about it, Balthazar's, who had been warning him all along about getting involved and could have justifiably said 'I told you so', is just like, "*sigh* I would have done the same thing. You crazy kids stay here while I go sacrifice myself. Enjoy your hormones."_

_All that having been said, his sense of humor is more than a little mean. The prank with swerving the car as Dave puts on the ring, after the kid told him ten minutes ago he had a nervous breakdown after the Arcana Cabana incident? Harsh. And WTF was up with the random electrocution by Tesla coil? Sink-or-swim training on how to block electricity? Except there's no real indication in the movie that that's what he's going for. (Probably it was supposed to be foreshadowing for the fight with Morgana, except it's hard to justify in-character, IMO). There's this dichotomy between how Balthazar expresses himself while teaching and how he interacts on a less formal level that makes me think he's being passive-aggressive. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy, but that isn't the most Merlinian of qualities, so…yeah. That's where this bit was born._

_TL;DR version: After several centuries, resentment builds in even the kindest of men. Plus Balthazar's a little crazy._

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><p>74. Retribution (750 words)<p>

After ages of silence, the dragon moved, shook itself off, and curled comfortably around the small boy's finger.

When Balthazar's heart started beating again, his first impulse was not joy, but rage. He wanted to leap over the counter, grab the boy by the shoulders, and shake him. _Where** were** you? It's been over a thousand years! __**Damn**__ you, where have you been hiding?_ Instead, he took a deep breath, circled around, and crouched before him. His hands were as gentle as he could make them and still quell the shaking.

"I have been searching," he said. "For a very long time."

And then, because fate so loved yanking Balthazar around by the most sensitive parts of his anatomy (figuratively speaking), Horvath escaped, and all hell broke loose in the Arcana Cabana. He tried not to think about the amount of inventory he was losing. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter, only the boy did. Still, ouch.

That trapping himself and Maxim was the best method he could think of to salvage the situation said a lot about Balthazar's state of mind, i.e. that he was not at his intellectual peak that afternoon. He sulked in the urn, avoiding Horvath and stewing in a mix of hope and anxiety, making plans for finding the boy, for training him, and then deconstructing each plan repeatedly to replace it with a newer and better idea. By the time the ninth year drew to a close, he had come up with an almost Rube Goldberg-like mechanism for locating Dave Stutler, involving talking pigeons, dancing statues, and two municipal garbage trucks.

It wasn't until he emerged from his porcelain chrysalis that it occurred to him that this latest debacle was the _boy's_ fault, not his. Not even Horvath's, really. If he had just kept his grubby little hands to himself like he had been told…

If he had just been born centuries ago, instead of after this endless, exhausting, soul-grinding chase around the globe.

So, when he confronted Dave on the rooftop, he wasn't as charitably inclined as he might otherwise have been. And still, it went against the grain to force another man's obedience.

He went for trickery instead, and it worked.

And yet, even as the boy accepted the apprenticeship, even as their lessons progressed, irritation continued to gnaw at the ancient Merlinian. He had had students before. He was known as a strict but fair teacher, a man who demanded focus and effort, but never raised a hand, even to the most recalcitrant apprentice.

He tossed Dave around the room like a rag doll, kept him on his feet for hours, even zapped him with his own Tesla coils. Ostensibly, it was all in the name of training. The boy would have to learn to defend himself, and fast. Too fast. But after a long day of teaching, he watched Dave limp out of the circle and empty a bottle of water like he'd never tasted the stuff before, and he wondered at his own behavior.

It couldn't continue, and yet he couldn't stop the lessons now. David Stutler could be his salvation, the world's salvation, if he could just restrain himself. Quietly, he brewed a bitter tea of willowbark, chamomile, and valerian, and set it in front of the boy. "This will help the pain," he said. "Maybe you'd better sleep in tomorrow."

"I'm okay," Dave said. It wasn't that he wasn't a complainer. Actually, he whined all the time, but that was mostly for show. Now that he was faced with genuine sympathy, he was all machismo.

_I'm not certain I am_, Balthazar thought, but he just rolled his eyes. "Sure you are. I need you here by one-thirty. What you do beforehand is up to you. How's that?"

"Works for me." The boy sipped his drink, winced at the flavor, and looked away with a small smile.

He could see the young man's thoughts drifting to a certain blonde, and annoyance rose in him again. "Drink your tea, Dave. Then get out of here. I have research to do."

"Yessir." Dave saluted, sighing. Technically, they were in _his _lab, but he wasn't going to argue the point.

Balthazar wandered away and opened his Encantus. He could only guess what the kid thought of his mean old bastard of a master.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, but maybe once the war was over, and Morgana was destroyed, he could make it up to him.


	5. Love

_Another Horvath bit. It stretches the limits of my imagination a little that Horvath could feel so much enmity for Balthazar over such an extended period of time just because of one (albeit major) transgression, much less turn instantly to the dark side and let his master be killed. Contrary to what Hollywood would have us believe, love triangles do not always end in violence and attempts to gain world domination as a consolation prize. Some people portray Horvath as someone who was straying a little from the beginning, but I think it's more likely and more interesting to imagine his fall as a series of small, painful events, with the final blow being Veronica and Balthazar's mutual interest. "We're always on the road, always fighting, we can't marry or have normal lives…but __**he**__ gets the girl and __**I'm**__ the odd one out? Forget this, I'm going to see if Morgana's hiring."_

_Morgana's always hiring._

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><p>27. Love (765 words)<p>

"Master, please," Maxim sat heavily on the hearth, watching Myrrdin's impassive face in the flickering firelight. "She's all I ever wanted. She's smart, and beautiful, and brave. And she wants me. I don't need money. I have a few things saved, and I can work for the rest. All I need from you is your blessing, and for you to talk to her father for me."

Myrrdin sighed. This was not an unanticipated complication in the lives of his three apprentices. They had all expressed doubts about the future, desires for the trappings of a normal life. Children. Family. Home. He couldn't offer them any of the above, and that was bound, in time, to cause hurt.

Watching his oldest apprentice hover so close to tears was excruciating.

"I love her," Maxim added, as if he hadn't made that clear enough already.

The older sorcerer came over and sat on the hearth next to him. "Maxim…this young woman," he began.

"Cedanwy," he supplied the name helpfully. "She lives in Cornwall. You'd like her; she learned midwifery from her mother, and everyone for miles around trusts her. She knows more herbs than I do, I think."

Myrrdin hushed him with a gesture. "Miss Cedanwy, then. Midwives carry valuable knowledge, but she's no sorceress, I assume."

"No, she doesn't react to any of the usual tests. But why should that matter?"

"Have you forgotten why I apprenticed you in the first place? There is evil in this world, great evil. We are all that stands between mankind and those who would rule it without mercy. Morgana is amassing an army."

Maxim looked at the floor. "Master, we'll never defeat evil entirely. You've said so yourself. And if history shows us anything, it's that mankind is always at war. But people still marry and have babies. Life is for living."

"Yes," he said slowly, "but you're a soldier on the front lines, Maxim. If you marry this girl, if you have children with her, what can you offer her but months of separation as you go off to fight, and always the risk of Morgana's servants tracking her down to use her against you. You know what they're like. You know they show no mercy to their enemies. You remember the massacre in _Glyn Dol_? They burned everything for miles. If she can't defend herself against magic, she's a lamb to the slaughter, and so are any children she bears."

He gave a barely perceptible shudder. "What if she were here? She'd be safe in the Keep, and…"

"Maybe. But would she be happy? If she's as good and as dedicated to her work as you say, depriving her of the opportunity to practice it would not be a kindness. And, Maxim, you're forgetting the spell."

The immortality spell had been cast on all three apprentices only two years ago. None of them really felt the effects yet, although rationally they knew their aging had been halted. In time they would look around them and see that everything was growing old but them, and the true enormity of the pledge they had made to their master and his battles would sink in. He hoped their loyalty would survive the test.

Maxim took a deep breath and looked up slowly. "The spell…yes. But…"

"I can make you no guarantees," Myrrdin said gently. "The war may end in ten years, or go on for centuries. Your wife might grow old and die, your grandchildren might grow old and die, and you would be as you are now. Do you want to take that chance? Can your heart bear it?"

The younger man said nothing, closing his eyes slowly.

"I'm sorry," Myrrdin said. "I truly am. And if you pursue her, I won't stand in your way. But I can't give my blessing, and I can't speak to her father. What could I tell him, other than that you're a good man who loves his daughter? Surely he knows that already. But you can't protect her. Love isn't enough."

Maxim rested his head in his hands, dejected, but after a long, quiet moment, he nodded. "I understand, Master."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "But I need you, and Veronica and Belshazzar need you. Maybe some day after Morgana is defeated…but don't look for it. Live one day at a time."

He placed a gentle hand on his apprentice's shoulder, and fell silent. After a few minutes, Maxim stood, straightened his clothes, and, fully composed, bowed in a silent request for leave to depart. Myrrdin nodded and watched him go without another word.


	6. Betrayal

_I struggled with the start of this one, because Horvath's origins are hard to work out without some assumptions based on his name, and then some serious research to back them up. But it wasn't long before I realized the historical details don't matter for this particular piece. What's important is the human interaction._

_Let me just say that the purpose of this isn't to depict Merlin and the other apprentices as the bad guys. Morgana's accusation rings true with at least some versions of the Arthur stories, but I like to think that Merlin realized later it was an incredibly crappy thing to do and tried to atone somehow, perhaps too late. And certainly Balthazar and Veronica come across as thoughtless here, but that's part of the reason I'm using the first-person point of view for Horvath's tale. This is how he perceives what went wrong, and it galls him that his friends don't quite get why he's as hurt as he is._

_I guess more than anything, I like to see Horvath's betrayal as Merlin's miscalculation and Morgana's tactical cleverness. YMMV. I'm posting this in tandem with 'Musical' because this is so dark, and the result of the other prompt is so not, so if you need cheering up afterward, keep reading._

78. Betrayal (3271 words)

Genre: the angst, omg the angst-!

Characters: Horvath, Merlin, Balthazar, Veronica, Morgana

Warnings: language, very dark themes, including implications of/discussion of rape and child abuse—not explicit, but I've upped the rating on this fic for a reason.

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><p>What you have to understand, first of all, is I loved my master. He was more than a teacher; he was a father, and for decades nothing he could ask was too much. I'd have laid down my life to please him.<p>

I was eight when he found me in an awkward situation. My mother had been a princess, wed to a neighboring chieftain as soon as she hit childbearing age. A necessary merging of clans, to promote peace. He was devoted to her, passionately possessive, and she bore him a son, my older brother. _My_ father, such as he was, was a foreign mercenary who was in our lands for only a few weeks. My mother died giving birth to me. Before she passed on, she named me Maximus, but I was rarely called that. Most often, they simply called me 'Boy'.

Whether my father raped my mother or whether she gave herself willingly, I could never be sure. I heard both stories from the men who raised me, my brother and my mother's husband. Depending on their mood, I was either the son of 'those bastard foreigners who take our lands and our women', or the son of a slut and a whore.

It says something in favor of my mother's husband that he kept me rather than having me quietly drowned. Nominally, I was his son and entitled to the respect of the tribe. Perhaps he just didn't care to admit he had been cuckolded. I was well-clothed, well-fed, and educated with such means as we had in our remote area. But punishments were harsh, should I step out of line, and affection was beyond my imagining. My brother, ten years my senior, was the apple of his father's eye, and whatever he asked for, he got. As I grew big enough to threaten his primacy in the household, he began to torment me in secret. If I complained, I would be beaten by his father, and then beaten again once he caught hold of me.

This was the sorry state Myrrdin found me in when he came to our lands. He came to us as a traveling merchant, never breathing a word about sorcery. Because my family's home was the largest, he stayed with us. My first impression of him was that he must be the oldest man in the world, because even then his hair was long and white, and his beard was even longer. When I showed him to his room, he looked me over with eyes that were a surprising bright green in a care-wrinkled face, and asked me how I had come to be so bruised.

Pride and fear dictated that I refrain from answering that question. I told him they weren't bruises, only dirt from the garden. He crouched to be on my eye level and said gently, "You're a terrible liar, little one. There's no shame in that. Cleave to the truth whenever you can; it makes you a greater man. Lies only make you a lesser one."

He gave me a piece of barley sugar and patted me gently. When I went away from him, I noticed the aches and pains of my last beating were gone. By morning, so were the marks.

I followed him around the village, trying to keep out of sight and failing. He never protested. In the evenings, he told stories by the fire, and though I wasn't alone in his audience, it felt as though he was talking just to me. Could any child, affection-starved as I was, fail to fall in love with that?

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><p>In the end, he bought me from my family. I'm sure he paid a good price, and I heard some of the negotiations. In retrospect, I imagine he used magic to aid his persuasive techniques. However it came to be, he took me back to Dinas Emrys, on the back of a gray horse, and told me he needed my help to fight evil. He put a ring on my finger, and a book in my arms, and proceeded to teach me everything my brain could hold.<p>

For six blissful years, his attention was all mine. After that, Belshazzar came, and soon after him came little Veronica. I was jealous, painfully jealous, particularly of Belshazzar. He was full of energy and laughter in spite of what he had been through, orphaned at twelve. Warmth and loving gestures came easily to him, and I, being a serious child to start with and then having never been taught to give or accept affection, couldn't compete. I always feared he was Myrrdin's favorite. But he was as persistently loving to me as he was to everyone else, and in time he won me over. We were like brothers. Veronica was different. Quiet, strong, and fiercely intelligent. At first she was to me what I imagined a little sister might be, but in time that grew and changed.

At least on my side.

For what it's worth, I never stopped admiring her beauty, her courage, or her remarkable mind.

If things had been different, I might have accepted her love for Belshazzar, but it came at the wrong time, and in the wrong way. I had long since abandoned the idea of marrying, for myself. Myrrdin made it clear to me that our primary duty as apprentices was to defend the world against Morgana and her allies, and because I was his man, through and through, I accepted it. I had been dispatched to Hibernia and spent several years in the wild, chasing down dark sorcerers and the creatures they had been summoning.

It was a long, cold, bitter six years, and when I returned I was anxious to be comforted by my master and fellow apprentices. Instead, in what could have been a comedy of errors but felt far more like tragedy to me, Belshazzar and Veronica were scrambling all over themselves to hide their romance, and failing. Myrrdin was distracted, concerned by their affair but uncertain how to approach it with them when they vehemently denied it at every turn.

They were awful liars, too.

I was the one who finally confronted them, specifically Belshazzar. "We're not children any more," I told him. "Not love-crazed teenagers. You're almost two hundred years old. What would possess you to do this, and then try to hide it from Myrrdin? Hide it from me?"

"Hide what? There's nothing going on, Maxim. We're just…"

I grabbed his tunic and pinned him to the wall. "Just what? Just friends? I think not. Just using one another for sex? I sincerely hope you're a better man than that. Damn you, Belshazzar, it's bad enough that you're sleeping with her, don't play me for a fool on top of it."

He looked away. "I love her."

I wanted to punch him, but I let him go. "Of course you do. So do I. That's the problem, and you know it. As long as we were brothers and sister, we were united. Now I'm the third wheel."

"We've always worked best together," he said. "She and I. We just fit. I'm sorry. We never meant to hurt you."

"Well, you have," I said, and walked away. He had always been the beloved, always the golden boy, and imagining him blissfully bound to Veronica was too much for me to bear.

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><p>"You're my friend, Maxim," Veronica said later, when she found me in the garden alone. "And I care about you deeply. I wouldn't want you to think otherwise."<p>

"It's just that he's more to you than I am. Don't try and cover it with sugar. Don't try to make it sound like I'm overreacting to nothing. You've gone behind my back and your master's."

"What were we supposed to do?" Frustrated, she paced across the paving stones and kicked a pebble. "Spend the rest of our lives close enough to touch and never admitting our feelings? Love is too hard to deny."

"But not impossible," I said, and she winced as soon as she realized what I meant.

"God. Maxim…how could I have known?"

"You couldn't, because I held my tongue like I was supposed to." I scowled at her, and stood to go. "It's up to you two to make your peace with Myrrdin, and whether he'll dismiss you or give you his blessing, I couldn't say. But I'll have no more to do with either of you, save out of duty."

She grabbed my sleeve, angry. "I have the right to choose my own lover!"

I pushed her off, probably a little harder than I should have. "Don't be simple. I never said you didn't. This isn't about who you spread your legs for, it's about who you hurt in the process."

She gaped at me, as startled by the crudity of my speech as the rough shove.

"Don't give me that look," I added. "If you truly thought you and Belshazzar were in the right, you wouldn't have been covering up in the first place. Stop lying to our master, and stop lying to yourself."

This time, she didn't try to stop me when I stormed off.

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><p>I left for the mainland the next morning, saying my farewell to Myrrdin only. He was gentle and uncertain with me, floundering in his own confusion over how best to deal with my fellow apprentices. I knew, and he knew, that he couldn't afford to dismiss them. They were desperately needed in the fight. I think perhaps he hoped their affair would be fleeting, and things would return to normal in time.<p>

"I've always relied on you," he told me. "Perhaps too heavily. But Maxim, please understand…that I've always regarded you as my rock. I could not continue this fight without you."

As a declaration of fatherly affection, it was inadequate, but as an encouragement from a general to a lieutenant, it was enough. We clasped arms, and I forced a smile, and that was the last I saw of him, of any of them, in friendship.

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><p>The weeks abroad turned into a months, then a year. Morgana had long had allies in the Frankish kingdoms, and it seemed wherever I went simple diplomatic missions turned into gory brawls. Some of her servants had tamed dragons and griffins, and I almost lost limbs on multiple occasions. One marauding beast had been set to devour the children of a city near the coast. I set a trap and captured it, but I did not realize that the beast itself had been a trap for me. As I bound it into sleep, I felt the pinprick of a poisoned dart hit the side of my neck, and before I could raise a spell, I sank into darkness.<p>

I woke chained to a plush divan, my talisman so far out of reach I could not feel its familiar pulse. The room was pale marble and lush tapestries, lit by lamps of crystal and precious metals. Rarely had I seen such opulence—some might say, such waste. A maid came in with food and a goblet of wine. She looked young, but had snow white hair, and her eyes were slant and dark. I think perhaps she was fae, or some other conjuration of Morgana's. She smiled and stroked my face, but she would not answer my questions or release my shackles. In the end, I was forced to accept nourishment. When she left, I slept again.

The next time I woke, the woman in the room was familiar. Her hair was longer than I remembered, a sable waterfall around her shoulders, and my breath caught in my throat, because she was wearing nothing at all, save a garland of roses around her waist.

"Veronica?" I choked out, confused and afraid and, God help me, as aroused as I had ever been in my life.

She smiled, but as soon as she spoke, I knew she was not the woman I had grown up with. The tone and pattern of her speech was formal, cold and oddly metallic. "Maximus…I'm so pleased to see you awake. Indeed, I'm very pleased you chose to join me here in my Keep."

"Morgana." I tried to calm my fluttering heart. "I did not choose to come here, as you well know. Nor did I ask for you to toy with me by taking another woman's form."

"I thought you might be more amenable to my proposal if I wore a shape you found pleasing." She trailed a hand lazily up her own thigh, and I forced myself to look away.

"I like women as much as the next man," I told her, "but my master taught me to reject lies in any form. Even pretty ones. Especially pretty ones."

"Did he? Tell me more. You view shape-change as dishonesty, then?"

"When…when used to coerce a man into compliance, of course." Knowing what I knew, I still had difficulty not staring as she rose and stalked toward the fireplace.

She had a cat's smile, an expression that fitted ill on Veronica's sweet face. "Or when used to coerce a woman? Tell me, Maxim, what do you think of a man who tricks a lady by giving a stranger her husband's shape, allowing him to rape and get her with child?"

"What do you mean?" She had my attention.

"Your precious Myrrdin, who has raised you to be so honest. What do you really know of his history, and mine?"

"Are you saying—you lie! He would never do such a thing. Never."

"Poor fool. Where did you think Arthur came from?" She leaned on the mantel gracefully.

"I know that you got Mordred from tricking Arthur when he was drunk." Camelot had fallen around the time I was born, and in those days all news was secondhand reporting by travelers, tinkers, and merchants. Myrrdin preferred to speak little of Arthur, Morgana, and Mordred, but I had heard the basic tale, once from him, and time and again by servants in the keep and peasants in the lands I traveled.

"How could I do otherwise, when Myrrdin himself provided me my example? I was always his student, before he even acknowledged me."

"He…said you were his apprentice for a time," I admitted. "He said that you quit him because he refused to show you how to use the Forbidden Domain."

"Yes…I was quite interested in the magic of Life and Death. But some of it I have learned to wield without his assistance. No, what I learned best from him and his benevolent idiocy is that the end justifies the means. The truth is, Myrrdin found Uther Pendragon an unsuitable king. The man wanted my mother with an unseemly passion. I'm sure he would have torn apart the earth itself to claim her. But my father was a strong ruler in his own right, and Tintagel stood well against Uther's soldiers. Myrrdin advised Uther to call my father out to make peace. He would then give Uther my father's shape, and he would be admitted to the castle to do as he would with my mother. In exchange, Merlin would take the child conceived and raise it in such time and manner as suited him best."

I didn't know what to say. The master I knew would have abhorred such an act of deceit. But there was no lie in Morgana's voice, and I found myself wondering if I knew him as well as I had thought.

"I was there when Uther came in wearing the shape of my father, and I was afraid, because the man I knew and loved had never regarded my mother with an expression like a starving wolf. They sent me away, but I could hear her crying, because he was not gentle. When he was gone again the next morning, I knew my real father was dead."

I tasted bile, and my revulsion must have shown on my face, because she smiled again. There was a ripple of energy, and Veronica's shape vanished, revealing a fine-boned, black-clad redhead, Morgana's true form. "That is why I appeared to you in the shape of a woman you love. So that you could imagine the horror that a simple glamour could perpetrate upon the innocent."

When I didn't answer, she came and sat on the edge of the divan. "Tell me what you're thinking, Maximus."

"You're lying. You have to be lying."

"I think you know better than that." She tilted her head at me. "Moreover, I think you understand the implications. For all his talk about sorcerers serving the world, for all his protestations about the greater good, Myrrdin used the body of a woman who had done him no harm, and allowed the death of her rightful husband, because he thought he knew best what the world needed. Such arrogance! Such thoughtless cruelty."

Part of me resisted her words, but my rational mind acknowledged that if he had done what she claimed he had done, Myrrdin was no more than a kindly-seeming hypocrite.

She cupped my chin in her hand and forced me to meet her eyes. They were so dark. "There is no difference," she said, "between myself and your master, except that I admit to my true nature, and he hides behind a mask of righteousness."

I have come to realize over the centuries that my fall was not a single precipitous drop, but a series of events that gradually weakened and then shattered my will to resist temptation. Still, if I had to pinpoint the exact moment in time that my soul died within me, it was this moment, while she held my face in her hands and my gaze with her own.

She told me I was handsome, and kissed me lightly, and then banished my shackles with a gesture, because she could tell I was already vanquished. I could have run. I could have attacked her. Instead, I pulled her into my lap. She laughed as we made love, and I knew I was the joke, but I didn't care. If goodness could not be trusted, at least I could embrace evil.

* * *

><p>Morgana never pretended she was loving or loyal. I was a tool to her, and she gave me what she thought was needed to keep me on her side. I served her faithfully, but in time I realized that the only lasting reward I really wanted, or was likely to get, was vengeance. Myrrdin, Belshazzar, and Veronica became synonymous. They had all lied to me. They all wore a mask of purity that hid nothing more than the same base human desires they purported to condemn in their enemies.<p>

But love never truly dies. I watched Morgana tear apart Myrrdin's Keep to attain the spell for the Rising. Men and women I had known for years fell at my feet, pierced by fire and ice. Some of them I killed myself. And when my former master faced my new mistress, I did not hesitate to strike a blow on her behalf.

The look of sorrow on Myrrdin's face was one that would haunt my dreams for centuries. "You betray me?" he asked softly, so softly I almost didn't hear. But I didn't have to hear to know what he was thinking.

I tore the page from his Encantus and thrust it into my pocket, and when I left him dying on the floor, I did not look back. Some part of me hoped then, and hopes still, that he understood what I said without words.

Master, you betrayed me first.


	7. Musical

_I've seen a few things with Becky's opinion of Balthazar and vice versa, but overall in fics they seem to relate as 'my boyfriend's teacher' and 'my apprentice's girlfriend', and there's a similar sense of distance between Dave and Veronica. I like the idea of them all derping around Manhattan together, so I thought I'd throw something out that develops the friendships between the non-romantically-involved ladies and gentlemen._

_I roleplay Balthazar with a friend, and in my character development, I offhandedly came up with the idea of him being a minstrel or court musician off and on as he travels the world. It developed into a strong character trait through the course of a couple games, but it took me a while to connect it with Becky being so musically inclined_.

_This could be read as a 'hey, maybe they should trade romantic partners' kind of thing, and while I'd read/write that (or inter-Merlinian polyamory) for the lulz, that's not what I'm trying to express here. Just trying to convey images of Balthazar and Becky having a jam session while Dave and Veronica have earnest conversations about the Large Hadron Collider._

54. Musical (1050 words)

Genre: Gen, humor/fluff

Characters: Balthazar, Dave, Becky, Veronica

Warnings: A single low-octane swear word.

* * *

><p>Socializing was a little awkward for the post-battle week Balthazar and Veronica lived in Dave's lab. What he wanted was time alone with Becky, time to kiss and cuddle (or maybe more), time to just stare at her blue eyes and golden hair and listen to her laugh.<p>

He couldn't take her to his apartment, not with Bennet always hanging around, gaming with friends or courting his own feminine interests. Unfortunately, Becky had similar restrictions on her alone time, sharing a place with two other girls. The turnabout would have been ideal if it hadn't been inhabited by a pair of ancient sorcerers trying to get reacquainted.

When he and Becky showed up one afternoon after classes, ostensibly to study together, Balthazar was poking around the kitchenette on the upper level, sipping coffee and listening to a classical station on the radio. Dave greeted him sheepishly, but Becky immediately moved to adjust the volume up. "I like Holst," she said. "You can tell he was thinking about the mood he wanted to convey. Not just the technical stuff."

Dave went to get sodas for them both out of the mini-fridge. "I didn't know you liked classical music."

"What, you thought I only listened to rock and pop? I like playing contemporary stuff on my show, but seriously, there's nothing I don't listen to."

"Dave told me you were majoring in legal studies," Balthazar studied her.

"Just because my parents insist." She grimaced. "I'm minoring in business, but I'm kind of hoping to get into the music industry. Maybe represent artists trying to get a fair deal with bigger studios or whatever."

Dave recognized the spark in his master's eyes. Balthazar seemed to have previously mentally labeled Becky as a nice enough girl and good for Dave, but he had never had much interest in her personally. Abruptly, his attitude had shifted. "That's practical," the old sorcerer told her thoughtfully, "but you should follow your heart. Do you write anything, or play an instrument?"

Becky blushed. "I sometimes write lyrics, and I've done some vocal arrangements, but composing isn't really my talent. I can play the piano, but I'm not great. I just…want to be _in_ the music, if that makes any sense."

"Perfect sense, but don't sell yourself short," Balthazar smiled. "I've always thought of myself as more of a lyricist, but every now and again I'll hear some tune I came up with in the 1600s recycled by a Celtic pop group or something. It's flattering."

"Wait, what?" Dave gaped. "You can play music?" Somehow he wouldn't have thought it of Balthazar.

"I'm not allowed to use magic for profit," his master said, smirking. "I had to find some way to make a living for the past thirteen centuries. Not exclusively music, of course. I've been a falconer, a carpenter, a bricklayer, a doctor…but whenever I could get work as a musician, damn right I played music."

"Really?" Becky looked intrigued, and sat at the table across from Balthazar. "Any particular genre?"

"Genre was different when I got started. I've been all over the world and picked up bits and pieces of all kinds of traditional styles, but my work has mostly been simple ballads and madrigals. I played the shamisen a little in Japan, but I can't quite duplicate the vocal acrobatics the masters of traditional Asian music can do. If you're familiar with early Renaissance stuff, that's what most of my better work sounds like. I used to play the psaltery, sometimes the lyra or the flute."

Dave recognized he was about to get left out of the discussion. "Uh…hey, where's Veronica?" he asked in a last-ditch effort to participate.

Balthazar smiled. "Downstairs, reading your physics textbooks. She'll tear through your entire library by the end of the week."

"Okay," Becky said, ignoring the brief side conversation, "I went to this lecture on Medieval and Renaissance music a couple months ago, but they didn't have as many actual audio samples as I was hoping for. Maybe you can help me out? I was totally into the polyphonic stuff, especially Palestrina…"

"Oh, God, Palestrina," Balthazar tilted his head back with a blissful eyeroll. "One person can't duplicate that sound on his own, but I know I can find some scores of his for you. Have you heard…"

Suddenly they were talking a mile a minute, dropping words like 'motet' and 'dissonance' and 'melisma', and Dave was looking from one to the other as if they were playing a tennis match. After a couple minutes of increasing bewilderment, he muttered an excuse and slunk off down the stairs. He was glad his master and his girlfriend were getting along, but after years of social awkwardness, it was easy to feel hurt by getting shut out of a conversation.

At least his Tesla coils loved him.

When he wandered into the lab proper, he found Veronica standing on her toes and running one hand almost reverently over one of his coils. There were half a dozen books stacked around her feet, and a pair of reading glasses, no doubt borrowed from Balthazar, was perched on her nose.

"…Hello," he said to her uncertainly.

"Hmm?" she turned and flashed him a grin, pulling off the glasses. "Hope you don't mind. I have so much to catch up on. My God, over a thousand years of technology and theory!"

He peered at a page of the open book at her feet. "Oh, that one's from high school. I actually have some way better textbooks this year, and a bunch of old scientific journals, if you want to borrow."

"Please!" The reply was unhesitating, and he glanced up to catch a look of raw intellectual hunger on her face. It was an expression he couldn't recall ever seeing anywhere except in the mirror.

He broke into a grin. "No problem. You want to see the coils in action?" She had missed, no doubt, his Tesla attack on Horvath, since she had been possessed at the time.

"Of course!" Brightly, she gathered up the books to move them out of harm's way, and Dave reflected that it might be nice to be part of a quartet, after all, instead of a loosely gathered collection of pairs.

Upstairs, the radio played Tchaikovsky.


	8. Evil

_This is a crossover, and also sort of a gift to a dear friend of mine who roleplays The Shadow and is in the process of collecting the re-releases of the original pulp novels. For those readers who are familiar with The Shadow only through the radio plays and/or the film with Alec Baldwin, the original character was conceived as a far more gritty and violent individual, with a network of agents and much subtler superhuman abilities. New York being both The Shadow's protectorate and Balthazar's residence of choice for decades, it seemed inevitable the two should meet. We've played a few games bouncing them off one another, but as they're both hard men to get to know, and quite defensive, plots have been tricky to get off the ground._

_There's not a whole lot of evil actually depicted here, but the prompt made me think of this classic tagline, and thus the following drabble was born._

_I should also add, to those who are reading both this and Malleus, I'm working on the latest chapter and hoping to have it up by the end of the week._

Evil (1425 words)

Genre: Gen, Adventure

Characters: Balthazar, Harry Vincent, The Shadow

Warnings: None.

The man waiting on the park bridge was young, with a handsome face and intelligent dark eyes. He was smoking a cigarette, trying to look casual, but the way he glanced around him struck Balthazar as vaguely nervous. He couldn't blame him. Anonymous notes always made him jumpy, too.

He adjusted his hat as he emerged from the shadows, wandering casually over to the waiting man. He leaned on the railing and pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. He had bought them solely as a prop, having given up smoking a pipe over seventy years ago, but he knew how to use them. "Got a light, kid?" he asked softly.

"Sure." Despite his evident case of nerves, the boy struck a match and lit Balthazar's cigarette for him with calm, graceful motions. He was young, but clearly a professional.

"They say these things will kill you." He drew on the cigarette. "I'm still waiting."

That got an honest chuckle, but he was being sized up now. He released a trail of tobacco smoke into the air, then smiled faintly. "Nice night, Mr. Vincent. I won't keep you long. I'm sure you have other things to do."

Vincent's eyebrows jumped, but he only nodded and looked expectant.

"The object I wrote to you about," he said softly, "is a collar or torc. It's unimpressive in appearance, hammered bronze with no decoration. Early Medieval."

"Okay. And why should I be concerned about it?"

"You work for someone who will be, once he learns what it is."

The dark eyes narrowed. "How do you know who I work for?"

He shook his head. "That doesn't matter right now. The torc is hollow. Inside is a thin, blue-black liquid that can supposedly, if used properly, grant invincibility. The legend is that it's the ichor from a demon of war and murder."

"You brought me here to tell me fairy tales?" Vincent looked incredulous, and a little indignant.

Balthazar sighed and flicked ash off the bridge. "You don't have to believe the legend is true. I'm telling you facts. This is the story surrounding the torc, and I'm not the only one who knows it. You'll have heard, I assume, that Hitler has an interest in the occult? This piece, while it's not by any means the Spear of Longinus or the Ark of the Covenant, has a lengthy history and there are people who do believe. Some of those people are in New York, and so is the torc, with its current owner. Draw your own conclusions."

The younger man frowned in thought. "You're saying they'll be trying to buy this thing on the black market?"

"Buy it, or steal it."

"What about you?" Vincent regarded him with an edge of suspicion.

"I would buy it to protect it, if I could, but the current owner knows me, and there's no love lost between us." The Morganian sorceress who currently held the torc had been trained by Horvath. While she was too wary to use the item herself, she was not about to hand it over to any Merlinian, not without a fight to the death. "And I'm not a thief. That's why I turned to you and your associates. If you don't believe there's any power in the item, you should still be concerned that there are Nazis in Manhattan."

Vincent watched him as he took one last draw from the cigarette, then crushed it out on the railing. "Who are you?" the younger man asked at last.

"Just an old man." He shrugged. "I've been in New York off and on for a long time." Having said all he had come to say, he stuck the cigarette butt in his coat pocket and turned to go.

The younger man didn't stop him, but watched as he slipped off into the darkness.

* * *

><p>Two nights later, Balthazar was at his desk in the back room of the Arcana Cabana, going over the books. He had not run the place as a business for several years, busy off and on outside the country, but his bills and taxes seemed to be paid up. As he made a note in the margin of the page he was on, his senses tingled. His wards were going off quietly, a subtle shiver that usually indicated another human presence, but no evil intent. Assuming he was about to receive a late client, he got up and turned, then froze. He was already there. Just…<em>there<em>, in the corner of the room, and he hadn't even heard him approach.

The stranger was tall, taller than him, and the black clothing melted into the shadows so that he could not get any real sense of bulk. The red scarf was lowered, revealing a faint, grim smirk, but the hat covered the forehead, so only a sliver of face was visible. Balthazar was struck by the man's eyes, a piercing blue, and by a sense of presence, a feeling of controlled intellect and energy that he had felt from only a handful of individuals, one of them being Merlin himself.

"Your information was good," the Shadow said, studying him in turn.

He collected himself, folding his arms and leaning against the desk. "Glad to hear it. You caught them, then?"

The Shadow held out a black-gloved hand, wherein rested the collar. "The seller was injured, but will recover. The thieves will not."

He nodded. "I'll cross them off my list of things to worry about."

"I'm curious about the method you chose to contact me." Balthazar knew what he meant. Agents of the Shadow were covert. If Vincent were widely known to be connected with his chief, that limited his future usefulness.

"I'm not about to endanger anyone," he said. "But I'm observant, and I've been in Manhattan longer than you have, if not quite as consistently. It's all patterns. I'd ask how you found me, especially since I didn't give my name, but is there any point?"

The Shadow gave a rippling dark chuckle. "No point, no." He turned the torc in his hand slowly.

"I assume you'll be putting that somewhere safe, but I wouldn't mind a quick look first, if you're willing."

The sharp blue eyes met his. "No designs on invincibility yourself, I hope?"

"Hell, no. I'm already older than I ever wanted to be. I'd rather take my lumps and die when fate decrees."

The Shadow nodded slowly and tossed the collar gently across the room.

Balthazar caught it and looked it over. "If you're staying a few minutes, I could make you coffee."

The Shadow looked nonplussed for just a moment, then laughed, a sound that was chilling, yet spoke of genuine amusement. "Only if I can watch you make it."

* * *

><p>They saw one another only once or twice over the years, although Balthazar encountered Vincent and some of the other agents more often. He passed along information when he had it to offer, and gave safe haven to informants or wounded agents when requested. While Balthazar abhorred gangs, drugs, crooks and street violence, the Shadow's business was only peripherally related to his own. He went out of his way to keep the man and his agents out of the occasional Morganian threats, and never explained what was in the Grimhold he protected so fiercely, but somehow the crimefighter seemed to have figured it out. The Shadow never used the word 'sorcery' and Balthazar never made any allusion to psychic powers, and the loosely allied working arrangement suited them both.<p>

He read the pulp novels when they came out, of course, and found their description of the hero a little inadequate.

It was decades later, after the final battle and toward the end of Dave's apprenticeship when Balthazar overheard the Prime Merlinian and his girlfriend discussing old-fashioned radio programs.

"I wish they still made them," Becky was saying. "I mean, a lot of them were cheesy, but some had interesting storylines. I was listening to some old suspense programs on this website the other day."

She unfolded her laptop and hit a few keys, and before Balthazar knew what was coming, the speakers were playing Omphale's Spinning Wheel, and the announcer was speaking with the long pauses and deep dramatic emphasis that characterized his time and trade: "Who knows…what **evil**…_**lurks**_ in the hearts of men…? **The Shadow** knows!"

Balthazar laughed, the sound mingling with the maniacal cackle of the announcer. It didn't match the Shadow's chilling mirth, only a pale echo of reality. Still, it was a fitting and heartfelt tribute.


	9. Zombie

_I've been working on a number of things for this fandom, but in small pieces, so what I've got right now is half a dozen things that aren't ready to be posted, rather than one big thing that is. Also, I'm having the worst couple weeks. Without going into detail, let me just say that money's tight and a website I've been relying on to keep me sane is down. So, yeah. I'll keep with the writing regardless, but if the spirit moves you to review, that'd be awesome, and thank you to the folks who've been reviewing my stuff chapter by chapter._

_As far as this particular ficlet is concerned, I'm not positive about the historical/cultural accuracy of anything Balthazar's saying. Basically, I've been roleplaying sorcerous characters so long I can BS this stuff without going through Wikipedia or the Hermetic books my roomie and I keep on our shelves. I have had long discussions on the way magic works in certain fictional worlds vs. the way it has been practiced in the real world (and it has, plenty; it's just debatable whether there's any effect from the practicing). If you have a few days to listen, just get me started._

_Also, zombies. RAWWWRGGH brains._

62. Zombie (433 words)

"Revenants," Balthazar said breathlessly, "will use any corpse as a vessel, human or otherwise, and absorb nutrients through what remains of the physical body. Thaumavorous revenants will do the same, and leech off any magic in the vicinity. They're rarer, but they're worse for us, and sometimes—Dave, are you paying attention?"

"What?" Dave, busy bashing a clutching, rotting arm with the end of a shovel, shook his head. "Only you would use this as a teaching moment, Balthazar."

The outbreak of possessed corpses was mercifully small. Only three or four dozen, localized to a single neighborhood in the Bronx, and unlike Hollywood zombies, they weren't carrying a contagion. Still, they were capable of killing, and they were pretty terrifying to look at.

Becky had taken to higher ground, perched on the roof of Balthazar's car, but she was far from defenseless, lashing out with a hatchet at anything that came too close.

"Until you're an adept, every moment is a teaching moment." Balthazar shattered one of the shambling monsters with a plasma bolt, then leaned against a mailbox to catch his breath. "Ultimately, we're going to need to dispel them with a spell, you know."

"You said, but we can't just let them wander in the meantime. What if we—" Dave was turned away from the last one he had felled and didn't notice it was still moving until it lunged and grabbed his ankle. He broke off in a yell, flailing.

A sword swung in an elegant arc, bisecting the creature clawing at the Prime Merlinian. He staggered for balance, and Veronica reached out to steady him with her free arm. The one that wasn't holding the blade.

"Thanks," he wheezed.

She shook her head at him reproachfully, eyes twinkling. "Rule #2: Double-tap," she said. "You know better."

He stared. "How do you even know _about_ that movie?"

"Netflix," Becky said, and hopped down to clean her hatchet on the grass. "You guys were busy."

Dave and Balthazar looked at one another. The older man shrugged. "I stopped watching movies when the actors started talking. Now, in this case, 'zombie' is a misnomer. It actually comes from the practice of voodoun, and it's supposed to describe the state when a worshipper sends his or her soul out to allow the loa in, but the original human soul doesn't return after the ritual's done. It got corrupted by popular culture; personally I blame early 20th century pulp novels, but if you look at certain Hermetic writings…"

Dave groaned and rolled his eyes. This was going to be a very long day.


	10. Gargoyle

_I'm willing to bet this is the only Bennet-centric Sorcerer's Apprentice fanfiction yet written, possibly the only one that will ever be written. And that's sad, because while Bennet was more of a plot device than a character, he was kind of fun. I could babble about Disney whitewashing Manhattan, but if you want that kind of commentary, I'm sure there are blogs for it. This is just a fanfiction, and one of the things I love about fanfiction is the opportunity it creates to flesh out bit parts._

_I was originally going to post this in two parts, as a separate fic rather than a chapter of Grimorium Merlinium. But it fits the prompt so well, and I think it will get more attention as a part of the Balthy 100 than it would as a stand-alone._

_While in the process of writing this, I checked out the IMDB page for Omar Benson Miller (Bennet's actor), and he seems like a very cool and creative individual (I understand he's done writing and directing of his own, which is neat). Too bad Bennet wasn't a better part for him, but I hope to see him in other roles in the future._

41. Gargoyle (5,602 words)

Genre: Gen, adventure, friendship

Characters: Bennet, Dave, Balthazar, Veronica, Becky, OCs

Warnings: A touch of swearing. Dog pee.

* * *

><p>Monday morning began on the couch. Bennet had spent most of the weekend just celebrating being young and unsupervised, and had begun his homework while it was no longer, technically, Sunday night. Around 3 AM he had collapsed on the keyboard of his laptop, sprawled face-down on the couch.<p>

He awoke to the sensation of a finger digging into his shoulderblade. "Knock-knock, Neo. Follow the white rabbit."

He groaned and looked up groggily at his roommate. Dave looked inordinately awake, and as neatly dressed as he ever was, except there was a bruise on one cheekbone.

"Man, you _are_ the white rabbit." He sat up reluctantly. "What time is it?"

"Almost eight. Don't you have class?"

He peered at his laptop screen. The last page and a half of his paper consisted of a blur of nonsensical letters and numbers. Bennet's forehead typed 30 words-per-minute, but its composition skill wasn't so good. "No, I don't. Executive decision."

"Huh." Dave raised an eyebrow. "Well, I made coffee. Help yourself."

He turned to go, but Bennet interrupted him. "Dude. You just getting in?"

"Uh…pretty much, yeah."

"Daaamn. Hot date?" He got up, wandered to the kitchen and groped muzzily for the coffee pot.

"Sorta." Dave looked sheepish, but then he almost always looked sheepish.

"About time." He took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter flavor. Dave always made it too strong. "What happened to your face? Becky's into discipline?"

Dave turned red. "No! I…ran into a gargoyle."

"That's too—wait, a gargoyle?"

"Y-yeah. It was…you know what? Never mind. I need a shower and a nap. You just…drink coffee." He made a hasty exit.

Bennet shook his head. His friend had been acting strange lately. Stranger than usual. Ever since his uncle showed up-and the man showed no signs of leaving anytime soon-Dave had been going in and out at all hours, interrupting dates, homework, and important gaming sessions with impunity and coming home with increasingly bizarre explanations. Part of it was obviously the new relationship with Becky, of which he approved, but there was something else going on, and Dave was not being forthcoming.

He was the worst liar ever, but he wasn't too bad at evading questions by running away.

Bennet scrounged in the freezer until he found breakfast (pizza bagel bites, which he garnished with canned pineapple), and settled in to eat and plan an excuse for why his psychology paper was late. He had hardly begun when there was a knock on the door. He got up with a grumble and opened it, prepared to tell off whoever was on the other side.

His jaw dropped when he saw the woman standing there. She was probably out of his age range, but her face was stunning; full lips and bright eyes framed with smooth dark hair. Her figure, likewise, was flawless.

"Guh?" he said.

She smiled. "Sorry, but I was looking for David Stutler. I'm his Aunt Veronica." Her accent was hard to place.

'Where's he been hiding you?' was what he wanted to ask, but what he said, with impressive aplomb, was, "He's in the shower, I think. You wanna come in?"

"I had better, yes." She swept in and peered around their cluttered kitchen with a small smile.

"Coffee?" he offered, but she shook her head.

"I really need to speak with him right away." She looked expectant.

Realizing what she was getting at, he sighed and made his way into the back hall of the shared apartment. He thumped on the bathroom door and yelled over the sound of rushing water. "Dave! Your aunt's here!"

"My what?" the voice was faint.

"You aunt! You know, your aunt Veronica? Tall brunette?"

"Veronica?" the water cut off, and a moment later Dave opened the door, shirtless but mercifully wearing his jeans. "Uh…be right there."

He was walking stiffly, and Bennet raised an eyebrow. "Cut yourself shaving your legs?" he teased.

Dave threw his towel at him and stumped off to his room. Bennet took the opportunity to use the facilities.

When he emerged, Dave and his aunt were huddled by the kitchen door. "…getting worse," Veronica was saying. "Some sort of sclerosis, and his skin's turning gray. What about yours?"

"I can't see it, but it doesn't feel like it's healing."

"Maybe I should take a look at it. Maybe the claws carry some kind of infection."

"Whoa. Veronica, no way. It's…in kind of a personal place." Dave rubbed the back of his neck, red-faced.

"Well, if you can't see it and you haven't let anyone else attend to it…" she made a frustrated gesture. "We can't take this to a hospital."

Bennet was concerned in spite of himself. He advanced to the table and picked up a bagel bite. "You all right, Dave?" He studied his roommate's expression, which was suddenly very shifty.

"I…think maybe we should…Uncle Balthazar's coming down with something. I better go…" he waved a hand vaguely. "If Becky calls, tell her…on second thought, don't tell her anything."

Veronica looked as skeptical as Bennet felt, but Dave was already headed out the door, and after a sigh and an apologetic shake of her head, she followed.

* * *

><p>Three hours later, Tank wandered into the living room where Bennet was once again struggling with his paper. The dog whined, scratched behind an ear, and abruptly detonated on the carpet, like a furry urine bomb.<p>

"What are—oh, man! No! Bad dog! Bad!" The bulldog cowered as Bennet rose and grabbed a rolled-up magazine, but after a moment's thought, he lowered his arm. It wasn't Tank's fault if Dave hadn't even taken him out since last night, which seemed likely considering his arrival and rapid departure earlier.

Reprieved, Tank scuttled away into the kitchen, and Bennet glowered at the puddle he had left behind. The reason he himself didn't own a dog was that he was distinctly unfond of unsolicited bodily fluids. He considered leaving the mess for Dave, but if his pal didn't return in short order, it would just lie there, soaking the carpet and eating into the floor beneath. Plus someone might step in it, and with his luck, that someone would be him.

With a groan, he made his way to the kitchen and nabbed the cleaning supplies from under the sink. Tank was hiding under the table.

"Me and your owner need to have a talk," he told the dog. "Did he feed you yet today?"

Tank whimpered and wagged his tail.

"That ain't right. I'll take care of it, don't worry." He returned to the living room and poured generous amounts of orange-scented disinfectant over the carpet, then whistled for the dog and led it into Dave's bedroom.

Sure enough, the kibble dish on the floor was empty save for a couple crumbs. Bennet cast about for the food bag, finally discovering it in Dave's desk chair. He filled the dish and thumped the dog on the side as it began to dig in. As he returned the bag, he paused, his attention caught by a yellowed page on the desktop. He picked it up gingerly; it felt thick and crackly, like parchment. The image was fading, but the lines were still legible. It appeared to be a drawing of a demon or gargoyle, chained within a circle with weird sigils sketched around the edges.

Across the bottom of the page, written in antiquated script, were the words, 'Chernobog lies sleeping/until woken by the blood of the Lady.'

As far as Bennet was aware, Dave was not taking a medieval literature course, let alone a demonology class. He stared at the page, scratching his head. Was this a hobby? Or perhaps a mental illness?

A split second later, the phone rang, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He tossed the parchment back onto the desk and scrambled for the extension on Dave's nightstand.

"Hello?" He sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

"Dave? No…Bennet?" The voice on the other end was female, and familiar.

"Oh, hey, Becky," he sighed. "Dave's not here. Listen, do you know if he's into LARPing or something?"

"What? I don't even…"

"I mean, it's cool and all, only I don't get why he wouldn't come right out and say so."

"Bennet. I don't know what you're talking about. Seriously. Where is Dave?" She sounded mildly annoyed. "I can't reach his cell."

"How should I know? He was only here for an hour this morning before his aunt came and dragged him off somewhere."

"His aunt? Veronica?" Becky made an anxious, strangled noise. "Okay. Bennet, listen carefully. I was doing some research for Dave, so I want you to tell him something for me if you see him before I do."

"Research? Hang on, I'll get a pen." Why did none of this make any sense?

"Yeah, it's pretty simple. Look, just tell him there's more than one. Tell him there are two. He'll understand what I mean."

"Two what?" Bennet was exasperated. "Becky, _what's going on_?"

"No time. I'm gonna go look for him." Before he could protest, she had hung up.

Bennet blinked at the phone a minute, then got up and returned to the living room couch. He wondered if this was all some sort of elaborate prank.

He stared at the last few lines of his psych paper for a full five minutes, realized this wasn't getting him anywhere, and fired up his internet browser instead. He checked email, responded to a message from the extremely sexy art major he'd been chasing all semester, and was about to go on Facebook (because _that_ was never a waste of time), but something changed his mind. Realizing it was more than just Dave's weird behavior that was getting to him, but also the idea that something important might actually be going on without his knowledge, he clicked Google and typed 'Chernobog' into the box.

The first thing that popped up almost made him close the window and give up the whole stupid line of thought.

"A Disney villain?" he said aloud, staring at the animation screenshot in front of his face. "Dave, what?"

Admittedly, the character looked pretty demonic, particularly with fiery lighting flickering under the chiseled features. He clicked the image and was taken to a page with a more detailed description. Fantasia. He had seen the film at least once before, although what tended to stick out in his mind was the scene with all the giggling female centaurs, not the Night on Bald Mountain sequence the current pictures came from. And the dinosaurs. There had been dinosaurs, hadn't there? He rolled his eyes, skimming the text, but paused at a phrase near the bottom.

_The character of Chernobog was named after and loosely based on the Slavic god Czernobog, the Dark Sun of the Underworld._

He considered this a moment, then returned to Google and typed in 'Chernobog, mythology'.

The articles that popped up were sketchy, and many disagreed with one another, but as he read, his brows knitted slowly together.

_…at festivals, each person would raise a glass, ascribing misfortune to and cursing Chernobog or other malevolent gods…uncertain whether Chernobog was a separate deity or another name for an older god…the name Belobog, which loosely translated means 'White God'…may have been an oppositional deity in a dualistic system much like Zoroastrianism, or may simply be another aspect of Chernobog himself…_

Becky had said there were two. Was it possible this was what she meant? Two demons?

Bennet closed the browser, then the laptop, and stared into space, frowning. If Becky had, in fact, been researching this mythology for Dave, and if the results were important enough to call and give what sounded like a warning, that implied something more serious than an animated film and a Wikipedia article.

He thought of Dave and Veronica's discussion, too. It sounded like he and his uncle had contracted some kind of illness, or been injured by the same thing.

The pieces weren't exactly falling together, and the conclusion he was tempted to draw—namely, that Dave had been out fighting monsters—seemed downright deranged. Maybe he just hadn't slept enough.

His eyes strayed to the calendar on the wall. The photo this month was just a trio of sleepy wolf cubs, but last month Dave had taken a Sharpie and very carefully drawn a cage and muzzle around the snarling Alpha male in the photo.

"They bite," he had explained when Bennet confronted him.

"Photographs bite? Calendars bite? Do you have a pathological fear of paper-cuts?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just…not an animal person?" Dave had done that flaily hand-gesture he often did when he was embarrassed, and Bennet had given up on the conversation, exasperated.

"Tell that to your dog," he had said, and left it at that.

He went over and flipped through the photos, remembering the many times he had used them to try and spur Dave out of the sidelines and into the game. Participate! Now Dave was involved in the game—or a game, anyway-and he, Bennet, was on the bench.

That just couldn't be allowed to continue. Resolved, he slapped the calendar down on the table and stomped off to his room to change and put on his shoes. He was going to find his pal and help him out, whether he wanted him to or not.

And Tank was coming with him, because that dog needed a walk and hell if he was coming home to find a pile of crap on the floor.

* * *

><p>Dave's lab in the subway turnabout looked deserted from the outside, but Bennet had a key, so he went in to check just in case. Everything looked pretty much as usual, except there was a big bottle of iodine, and a half dozen stained towels on one of the tables. Looking closer, he realized the stains were dried blood, and felt uneasy. Standing over the weird carved circle in the floor of the room, he scratched Tank behind the ears and tried to think where else Dave might have gone. Various NYU hangouts came to mind, but if there was some kind of trouble he was involved in, Dave probably wouldn't go looking for coffee, a cheap burger, or overpriced school supplies.<p>

Suddenly, there was a loud banging at the elevator. Tank yelped and made a run for the back of the room, jerking his leash out of Bennet's hand before he could react. He swore, glanced over at where the dog was cowering beneath a sink, then jogged up the stairs to see who was knocking.

He immediately wished he hadn't. On the opposite side of the elevator cage was one of the largest men Bennet had ever seen. Broad-shouldered, tall, and beefy, he actually looked as though he had had difficulty cramming himself into the lift. He was wearing a trenchcoat, a battered black Stetson, and a pair of mirrorshades, but his feet were bare. A mane of yellow hair tumbled over his shoulders, paired with an equally luxuriant beard. Bennet was neither short nor scrawny himself, but next to this blond brute, he felt petite.

"You are not David Stutler," the man said. His accent was heavy, and his voice was deep, very deep, as hoarse as if he'd been gargling broken glass. "Why are you here?"

"I was gonna ask you that question." Bennet tried to casually block the man's way out of the elevator. "Dave asked me to check up on the place while he's away. Just watering the plants, you know?"

"Plants?" The man turned his head from side to side as if listening for something. "I am old friend. Where is he, please?"

"I've known Dave since he was thirteen. He never mentioned he knew Schwarzenegger's evil twin." Bennet folded his arms. In the back of his mind, he realized his behavior was reckless, but he wasn't willing to let a threatening stranger get a free pass into Dave's lab.

They'd been pals a long time, and for most of that time, he'd been the only friend Dave had. That meant something. Sometimes he wasn't sure what it meant, particularly when his friend was being bizarre, but…bros before giant scary trenchcoated strangers, right?

Right.

His determination wavered a little when the mirrorshades swiveled back toward him. "Old friend of his mother," the stranger said darkly. "Where is he?"

"I don't know." Bennet said. "Seriously, dude, I don't."

The gaze remained leveled at his face, and after a moment of scrutiny, he started to feel shaky, like he'd been out in the sun too long. To cover, and to distract the uncomfortable attention, he asked, "Who are you, anyway? You got a name?"

"Mr. Bieber," the hulking man said, with no hint of irony. "Mr. J. Bieber."

Bennet was not stupid. Not by a long shot. And he was well aware that a teeny-bopper clothing outlet less than half a block west had a huge 'Bieber Fever!' banner draped across the display window. He blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded slowly. "O…kay. So you want me to tell Dave you came by, Mr. Bieber?"

"No. You take me to him, as quickly as possible."

"I told you, man, I don't know where he is, and that's not going to change, no matter…how…" he trailed off as the sick, overheated feeling redoubled. After less than a minute, it felt like his body was on fire, and as he held up a hand to support himself against the wall, he could see, with bewildered horror, that steam was rising from his own skin. He started to stagger back, but large hands caught him by the shoulders.

"You understand now?" the man asked quietly.

"There…there are some places he might go," he choked out painfully. "I was already trying to think where. But I don't have a car. We'd have to walk or get a cab."

The sizzling heat eased off slowly. "Well enough. Come."

Bennet was hauled into the elevator, where he flattened himself against the wall as best he could. He ached, and he felt desperately thirsty, but he said nothing as the lift stopped on the surface. Mr. Bieber exited, expecting him to follow, and after a moment of considering his options, Bennet did.

"You also have a name?" the huge man asked, with a trace of mockery in his voice.

Bennet glared at him, frightened, angry, and uncertain how best to get out of this situation. After a split second's thought, however, his brain caught up with him, and he said, just as if he meant it, "Taylor. Taylor Lautner."

"Good enough." The man turned and started down the sidewalk, heedless of gravel and broken glass beneath his bare feet.

* * *

><p>The first place that it occurred to Bennet to look was the coffee shop near the NYU radio building. Because of its close proximity to Becky's workplace, Dave had begun gravitating there regularly, after classes. It was a long shot today, he assumed, since Becky had clearly been searching for Dave and she knew his haunts as well as Bennet did, but he felt like he had to show some kind of effort to divert Mr. Bieber's fiery temper. "Look, man," he said as they scanned the interior of the shop. "I gotta get some water or something."<p>

"You will stay where I can see and hear you," the reply was firm, but since the strange man hadn't said no, Bennet slunk toward the counter and mumbled his order to the barista, an iced green tea and a bottle of water. He paid, but while he waited he heard a familiar voice call his name. He turned, half pleased and half appalled, as his art-major girlfriend bounded up to him, clutching a digital camera. Dressed in skinny jeans and a t-shirt that hugged her curves, her hair in exuberant dark-brown spiral-curls, she was more than easy on the eyes. Her timing, however, was terrible.

"Selena!" he smiled weakly. "Hey, baby, what up?"

"I thought you were working on homework all day," she elbowed him gently, flirting. "Taking a break?"

"Had to run some errands. Uh…how's the project coming?" She had been, he knew, working on something important for her photography class. Some kind of photo essay of places around the city.

"Oh my god, you have no idea. I found the weirdest thing at a cemetery in Queens this morning. Check it out." She turned the viewscreen of the camera toward him and began hitting buttons.

Bennet accepted his drinks as the barista slid them across the counter, then became uncomfortably aware of Mr. Bieber looming over his shoulder. Willing the huge man to keep silent, he flashed Selena a wan smile. "Uh…he's a friend of Dave's. I'm helping him find a hotel."

"…okay." Her expression spoke volumes about what she thought of Dave and his friends, but she was more focused on showing off her photos for the moment. "Right, so I went to this cemetery with Gina earlier today. We were just going to do some rubbings of the headstones, but we came to one of the older areas, and there was all kinds of statuary. You know, lambs, angels, obelisks. And this."

He peered at the image on the viewscreen. It was a hulking granite form crouched between gravestones, vaguely humanoid, with arching wings and well-defined muscles. The face was hidden, but he could see horns on the head. He thought immediately of the parchment on Dave's desk.

"Isn't that crazy?" Selena enthused. "It's not even on one of the graves. It's like it was just lurking there. Gina was so freaked out. She was all, 'What if it comes to life when you blink, like the angel things on Doctor Who?' And I said I would shit a brick."

He tried to laugh, but couldn't get a sound out, because this sounded, at the moment, vaguely plausible. Hadn't Dave said he ran into a gargoyle? Hadn't Veronica mentioned claw wounds?

"Where is it?" Mr. Bieber spoke in a low rumble that clearly meant business. "Where?"

Selena was not intimidated, frowning in annoyance at the rude tone. "Excuse me? I already said it was in Queens."

"You take me there. Show me."

She snorted. "I'm not your tour guide. You can find it yourself."

Mr. Bieber snarled, and Bennet intervened desperately, afraid this conversation would end up with his girlfriend catching on fire. "Nah, man, I can take you there. I got it covered. You got an address, 'Lena?"

She gave him a long look, then said, "Sure. Hold up, I'll bring it up on my iPhone."

He waited patiently as she got out the phone, tapped the screen, then flashed not only the address, but a series of directions at him. "You're gonna have some explaining to do later," she told him as he scribbled on the receipt for his beverages.

"Um. I'll do my best." He plucked at Mr. Bieber's sleeve, trying to coax him out of the building. Fortunately, the huge man followed, evidently eager to go.

Outside on the street, Bennet looked for a taxi.

"We must go now," Bieber frowned at him.

"We can't walk all the way to Queens," he said. "And I don't think you're gonna fit on the subway." Plus that could be volatile. "We need a cab."

"What?"

"A cab. Taxi cab. A car, a car." He pointed impatiently at the street, where vehicles crept slowly by.

"Bah. Too slow." Before Bennet could even process what was happening, let alone object, Bieber had slung a beefy arm around his chest and pulled him close. He heard a sound like a crash of lightning, earsplittingly loud, and white light filled his vision. It was gone. The ground was gone, and he was in the air and burning, burning, couldn't see, couldn't scream oh god was this what dying was like…?

It was over almost as soon as it began. Bennet was dropped unceremoniously on soft grass. He collapsed on all fours, dropped his purchases, and lost his lunch. His ears rang, and his vision swam. It was at least a few full minutes before he became aware of voices around him.

"…can't understand why you have done this," it was a woman's voice, familiar.

A male voice, also familiar, added, "This young man is absolutely no part of this. You had no right to abduct him."

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" This time the nearby voice was more than familiar. It was Dave's. Bennet decided to kill him.

"What. The hell. Is going on?" he staggered to his feet, looking around.

Dave was standing only a few feet away, but leaning heavily on Becky, and his left leg looked weird through the tear in the knee of his jeans. Stiff, rough, gray. Almost like granite or concrete poured into a leg-shape and tacked onto his body. Behind him, his Uncle Balthazar and Aunt Veronica were facing off with Mr. Bieber amidst a scattering of ornate tombstones. Balthazar's arm was in a sling, and it, too, looked strangely rocklike. Mr. Bieber looked much the same as before, except his hat was off, revealing a pair of spiraled white horns, and his sunglasses were off, revealing eyes that blazed orange with eldritch fire.

"All alike," Bieber snarled. "You humans, you wizards! You take what does not belong, you pull apart and keep away and ruin! Vermin! Rats and leeches and filth!"

"Uh," Dave looked awkward. "We're attempting some conflict resolution here, but it's not really uncle Balthazar's forte, so…"

"I am NOT here to argue with you," Balthazar growled at the hulking creature. "You are in our world, and you WILL obey our laws or I will send you packing to whatever netherworld will have you!"

"Easy, easy, both of you," Veronica waved a hand in protest. "This is holy ground, a cemetery, you can't fight here!"

"All the more reason for him to go!" Balthazar pointed with his free hand. "I don't like demons, Veronica. I don't like them, I don't negotiate with them, and I'll be damned if I let one bully me."

"You do not know damned. I can show you damned," the horned being bared its teeth.

"That may not have been the best choice of words," Becky advised, clinging to Dave.

"Wait, wait, wait. So it's true?" Bennet looked at Dave. "You, your aunt and uncle, your girlfriend—you're all wizards? You're fighting demons? In New York, in broad daylight? And you thought it was okay to not tell me this? Man, _I_ made _you_ read Tolkien. I made you watch the Harry Potter movies. Blade, Star Wars, Final Fantasy, Dr. Who, the Sandman comics, Highlander, all the X-men stuff…everything fantasy or sci-fi you've ever looked at came from me. And you didn't think I might like to know it's for real?"

"_I'm_ not a wizard," Becky said softly.

"Uh…can we talk about this later?" Dave was distracted by the plasma bolt Balthazar was forming in his good hand, despite Veronica's frantic protests in Welsh.

"No! How long have you known?"

"Look, when I was ten I saw a sorcerer's battle and it scared the shit out of me!" Dave shouted. "I almost had a nervous breakdown! Why do you think I don't like fantasy movies in the first place? It's not for real unless you're actually facing death for real, and we kind of are right now in case you hadn't noticed so I think we can hash this out later!"

Bennet blinked at him slowly, then turned to watch as Balthazar let the magic fly. The bolt crackled over Mr. Bieber's body, but it didn't appear to harm him at all. He almost seemed to absorb the energy, the tendrils of lightning swelling into bands of radiant flame.

Dave swore and tried to drag Becky behind a nearby monument. The two older sorcerers, likewise, split and scattered as the flaming being charged, Balthazar stumbling and falling on his injured arm, Veronica ducking behind a tree with a yelp. Bennet backed up hastily and held up both arms to shield his face. "Hey! Wait! I thought we were pals, Bieber!"

The demon stopped a couple feet from him, close enough that the heat stung against his skin. "What?"

"Well, I got you here, didn't I?" He babbled desperately. "Without me, you'd still be wandering around Manhattan. So you owe me."

Mr. Bieber growled softly, shuffled, and backed up a couple steps. "What do you want?"

"Uh, I want you to not kill anyone?" Bennet peered at him cautiously.

The monster looked mulish, glowering at each of the hidden parties in turn.

"What is it you're after, anyway?" Bennet continued, taking heart from the evident truce. "Souls? World domination?"

Bieber shook his head. "My brother. I want my brother."

Balthazar sat up slowly, grimacing and rubbing his arm, and Veronica rushed to his side to support him. "Chernobog's not far from here," Balthazar said, "but he sleeps during the day. We were going to destroy the statue and exile the indwelling spirit."

"Well, no wonder he's pissed off, if that's his brother," Bennet edged over and offered them a hand up, eyes focused warily on Bieber-Belobog.

"I'm sorry about that, but I can't have two demons running around Manhattan, no matter how pure their fraternal bond." He accepted the hand, but seemed annoyed about it, and possibly embarrassed. "Look, Belobog, Morgana is the one that decided to imprison you and use Chernobog as her backup plan, and she's dead. There's no one left to avenge yourself on, not here."

The demon snarled, but the rings of flame were slowly sputtering and dying. "My people are gone. My home is gone. Sorcerers have taken all. I will have compensation."

Balthazar's expression flickered, and Veronica spoke gently, "Time is what took it, not sorcery. It takes from us all, humans, demons, gods…all you can do is rebuild."

Mr. Bieber looked at them for a long moment, then his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Give me my brother, and we will go," he said. "We do not belong in this world."

"I think that can be arranged," Balthazar looked equally defeated, but almost any peaceful solution was better than a gory fight. "There are places in the Balkans, still, where you can live and be unmolested by humankind. I can even get you plane tickets."

"No. Then I would owe you." The demon shook its head, then retrieved the mirrorshades from its pocket and put them back on.

"If you restore my arm and Dave's leg, we can call it all even."

Mr. Bieber raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Chernobog first."

* * *

><p>The restoration of the stone demon was less dramatic than Bennet might have hoped. He and Becky stood back while the three Merlinians placed hands on the statue and focused, eyes tightly shut. The granite wings and horns flaked off and crumbled, the stone skin cracked like an egg hatching, and a man stood up in the ruins. He was much the same size as Belobog, but a contrast in color, with dusky skin and inky hair. His eyes were opaque black, without whites or pupils.<p>

"We're going to need to get him some sunglasses, too," Bennet pointed out mildly.

Ignoring him, the brothers embraced.

* * *

><p>They all went back to the turnabout to hash out the details. Dave, though grateful to have his leg working again and no longer made of granite, seemed very edgy about the presence of the two demons, and not at all pleased about the idea of them staying the night. Balthazar was even worse, withdrawn and grumpy, but he pulled Bennet aside as Dave and Becky hooked up her laptop in order to search for plane tickets online.<p>

"I suggested to Dave a while ago that he bring you in on his secret," he told Bennet. "You and his mother. It's a hard thing to hide. But do you understand why it has to be hidden?"

"I've read the X-men," he grinned a little, guessing correctly that this would mean little to the older man.

Balthazar rubbed his temples. "Right, well, I lived through the Inquisition. This is important. I don't want to have to start erasing memories to avoid a moral panic."

"No, no. I get it. I do. Especially after…well, Dave's been hiding from something for a long time, but it's good to know what, and that he's not hiding any more."

Balthazar gave him a long, piercing look, then nodded, satisfied. "You're a good friend. And I appreciate your intervention, back in the cemetery. Did you know you could claim a favor, or was it just a lucky guess?"

"I was hoping. Mostly I'm just good at talking my way out of things." He sighed. "So, now that I'm in the know, I don't guess I get to be a wizard, too?"

Balthazar blinked. "…My hands are full teaching Dave, kid. Keep reading Tolkien for now."

"That's okay. I should probably work on one degree at a time. Damn, I still have a psychology paper to finish…"

"Bennet!" Dave yelled from across the room. "Why is Tank here and why did you let him chew up my biology textbook?"

"He is _your dog_, Dave! _Your_ dog! If you expect me to babysit _your dog_, you better be paying!" Bennet shouted back, then got up and stomped off to expound further upon this premise, to his friend's face. Sorcery or not, he was totally going to kick Dave's ass.


	11. Arcana Cabana Again?

_I've been Rping a pre-movie Balthazar elsewhere on line, and thinking about him running the Arcana Cabana made this pop into my head. I could theoretically have used for the prompts 'Dragon' or 'Unicorn', I suppose, but it really fits 'Arcana Cabana' best, which is one I've already used. So consider it Arcana Cabana part 2 or something?_

_This is set in 1998, and the little girl could be interpreted as wee baby Becky if you're so inclined, but it doesn't have to be that way._

1b) Arcana Cabana (Reprise) (980 words, no warnings)

* * *

><p>"Ma'am?" Balthazar kept his voice even and low. He rarely raised his voice in the Arcana Cabana, because so many of the artifacts were sensitive to his mood. At the moment, his mood was: cranky. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to watch your daughter. I'm an entrepreneur, not a babysitter." Actually, he was neither of those, but she didn't have to know that.<p>

The woman in question was talking on a cellular phone, a comparatively new digital model, and from what little he could glean about the conversation, she was making dinner plans. Meanwhile, the child with her, a pigtailed waif who couldn't be older than eight, was clambering across the 18th century divan upon which one of the lesser-known Monks of Medmenham had died due to overindulgence in wine and ritual sex. Primarily wine. Still, the furniture was known to carry a slightly unwholesome vibe, and the idea of a tiny child exposed to it set his teeth on edge. _Come on, lady, this isn't a playground._

The woman held up a hand impatiently to shush him and continued on with her conversation, peering into one of the jewelry cases near the stairwell. Balthazar took a deep breath and started to count to ten, then changed his mind and came out from behind the counter. "Sorry, princess; I can't let you play on that." He lifted the girl off the divan gently.

She didn't seem afraid of him. In fact, she latched onto his coattail after he set her down, tugging excitedly. "Is that a unicorn head? Is it?"

Glancing toward the mounted skull she was pointing at, he swallowed his annoyance briefly in light of innocent enthusiasm. It was one of his favorite items. On the other hand, a unicorn skull meant a dead unicorn (_he_ certainly hadn't been the one that killed it, but still), and she might be old enough to make that connection and be dismayed by the implications. "You like unicorns, huh? What do you think of dragons?"

"They breathe fire," she said. "Like Mushu!"

He was perplexed. "Mushu?"

"In Mulan." She shoved her tiny totebag at him, and he recognized the image on the front. The animated film had come out earlier that year. Of course a child would be excited about it.

"Oh, I see. Is Mushu a little dragon? I have a little dragon. Wait here." As he got up and went behind the counter, it occurred to him belatedly that saying _'let me show you my little dragon'_ to a small girl could potentially get him arrested.

Despite his request, the child trailed after him and stood with her chin over the counter. "He's little, but he can breath fire and bite and he's red and he gots horns."

"Mmhmm," he nodded absently and placed the dragon figurine on the counter. Merlin's ring hadn't moved in centuries, and he didn't sense any eldritch power in the child, but he had to check, just the same.

"Oohh!" she reached out and stroked the scaly metal back with a single finger. "What's his name?"

"He…doesn't really…have a name." Balthazar blinked. Naming Merlin's ring had never occurred to him, nor had it to any of his previous apprentices.

"You can call him Charlie," she decided, and picked up the figure to make it dance gently on the counter.

Balthazar's amusement was swallowed up in resigned disappointment. Obviously, this girl wasn't the one. Across the store, her mother was finishing up her phone conversation, and as she hung up, she came over and plucked the figure out of the girl's hand, peering at it nearsightedly. "Don't play with that, hon, that looks expensive."

Balthazar bristled, because he hadn't given the _grown-up_ permission to handle it, but as she set it back down promptly, he held his tongue.

"He said I could," the girl protested.

"Did you see anything you wanted?" the mother cast about and pointed out a doll in the case. "That's cute."

Balthazar slid the dragon back in its box, then into his pocket. "I don't actually sell toys, ma'am."

"What are you talking about? That's a doll, isn't it?" Either not noticing or not caring that her daughter looked lukewarm, the woman persisted. "Take it out. How much is it?"

"Look, that's not a toy. It's a 17th century poppet. It was used by folk magicians and witches to indirectly attack their enemies. Not only is it an antique, it's not safe to handle, which is why it's in a case."

She stared at him. "It's a voodoo doll?"

He gritted his teeth. "That's an oversimplification, but more or less, yes."

"You shouldn't keep junk like that where children can see it!" she snapped. "What kind of place is this?"

"This is an _occult_ gift shop. It says so on the door. I asked you repeatedly to watch your daughter, but you were otherwise occupied. You are extremely lucky she didn't get into the section where I keep swords and daggers, let alone poisonous herbs. Not every store in Manhattan is child-friendly."

She opened and closed her mouth a couple times, then gave in and took her daughter by the arm to drag her from the store. "Fine. Come on, baby, the man obviously doesn't like children."

Considering how many apprentices he had raised to adulthood, Balthazar found that a little rich. Normally he would pass up a parting shot, but he couldn't help himself. "I _love_ kids," he growled after them. "It's their parents I can't stand."

Once they were outside, he locked the door behind him, watching them through the glass. The little girl waved over her shoulder as she was hustled off. He sighed, a headache blossoming behind his eyes, and went into the back to make fresh coffee.

It was after this incident that he opted to make the store open by appointment only.


End file.
